


Star Light and Dandelion Clocks

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, fluffiest fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4462478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>we all dream don't we?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Star Light and Dandelion Clocks

**Author's Note:**

> celebration of 50 (and counting) followers on tumblr - thank you!
> 
> feedback always welcome (I am aware I have gratuitously abused grammar in a number of places)
> 
> I do have a version of this (well an outline) with a much longer, possible plot, but I liked leaving it as the fluffiest of fluffy fluff *nods*

The dreams were unbelievably vivid. I had never been there, I lived under a blue sky, with green grass underfoot, in the dreams the grass was red and the sky the most amazing orange. Great forests of silver leafed trees, giant ranges of snow-capped mountains and two suns. I knew there were two moons too, or I thought I did, but I couldn’t picture them. Distant cities surrounded by glass. Our sprawling, ramshackle house set amongst rolling hills.

 

And the sex, so amazing, definitely dreaming, nothing this good in real life, but never quite glimpsing who “he” was. Hearing his voice, always gentle, often growling and low and sexy, telling me how much he loved me, how wonderful I was. His arms wrapped round me from behind, rubbing gently over the swollen mound of my stomach – the realisation that this was our fifth child. Definitely dreaming – no kids.

 

Watching our children play in the grass, eating and talking and laughing with our extended family, bed time stories, bath time rituals. Books and stories and games and pets.

 

And finding ourselves in bed, again and again and again. And not only in bed. The dreams had us finding every available space, stealing every moment of time to be wrapped in each other. I had never felt this loved, or happy or secure. And still, dream or not, he could be infuriating, beginning this or that project, trailing mud through the house, letting the children eat dessert first. I snorted with laughter at that, how could I find someone who only existed in my head so endearing, so maddening, so lovely?

 

I still couldn’t see him, but I knew some of his memories, his boundless joy and enthusiasm, especially for the children and grandchildren and great, great....wait, how was that possible? He loved children, that was abundantly clear but he carried the shadow of past sorrow, of countless loss.

 

On the mornings I awoke with the memory of his lips on my throat, I sprang out of bed, happy and bright, singing in the shower – to the disgust of the cat. When I awoke without remembered dreams, the days were empty and hollow.

 

One day I awoke elated, realising I could remember his hair, it was like star light and dandelion clocks – silver, soft, curling. I loved to run my hands through it, scratch lightly at the nape of his neck with my fingernails, kiss him softly behind his ears, alternately earning me an exaggerated eye roll, or a series of contented sighs, that he adamantly refused to admit he’d made.

 

I knew I loved falling asleep listening to the sound of his voice – was it possible to fall asleep in a dream? I remembered doing it or felt I did. We were woken by children or pets bouncing on the bed, burrowing under the covers, coming to show off a new pebble, a perfect leaf, a bumped knee or skinned elbow. I smiled to recall that we didn’t make love in the mornings. Well, hardly ever.

 

Last night friends had travelled from somewhere far away to join us for dinner.

 

I never remembered cooking or cleaning, but I did remember hanging out the washing. As it snapped and flapped in the warm spring breeze scented with flowers I watched him play with the children. He’d taken old sheets and fabric and twigs and made kites. They all raced around and tumbled and laughed and whooped, chasing each other, seeing whose kite would fly higher, which could loop and swoop and turn.

 

The guests had arrived while everyone was still playing not minding the chaos of discarded books and shoes, empty mugs and half full cereal bowls. Good naturedly shifting things themselves ‘til everyone could sit and talk at once and hug and laugh and start endless sentences with “do you remember when? And “I wonder what so and so is doing now?” And “whatever did he see in her.” They felt like family too, although I knew I hadn’t known them nearly as long as he had. He snuggled against me, only getting up to refill my glass with tangy fruit juice and bring me tempting morsels, always insisting I was eating for two. This earned him a lingering kiss and a punch on the arm. I had lifted his arm round me and curled up into his side. 

He never proffered advice, but people constantly sought his opinion. To those he cared for he listened without judging and gave time and help unstintingly. When those who considered themselves important sought him out, he had an uncanny ability to vanish.

 

Colleagues at work and friends began to make comments that I didn’t fully listen to. Then I realised they were asking me about him, who he was, when they could meet him, they’d never seen me so in love. They’d watched me blush and smile as memories surfaced at unexpected moments. But the questions were a source of dread. What was happening, the best things in my life hadn’t happened. I was helplessly in love with someone I’d never met.

 

I found myself looking for him when I was out walking, hoping to catch a glimpse of his head in a crowd of people, knowing that he wasn’t here.

 

Another morning of waking, realising I must be about to “pop” soon as he so wittily put it.

 

As I closed my eyes that day, this time I realised I could see his. Grey and blue and sea green, ever changing, warm and deep, surrounded by laughter lines.

 

He’d snuck out of bed early and come back to present me with his latest knitting projects, tiny bootees, an intricate, kitten soft shawl, jackets and mittens and hats. I’d dragged him back to bed and shown him my appreciation. We’d slept late, eventually being woken by the children bearing a creative attempt at breakfast, as it was mostly sugar, he tucked in with gusto.

 

My favourite thing was lying back in his arms, feeling utterly loved and safe and contented. Him tracing patterns on my ever increasing stomach, that, I somehow knew were declarations of love. Our fingers interlaced and feeling our baby kicking and laughing when the cat sat on top of both our hands demanding his share of affection too. As I lay there he would tell me impossible stories. All of time and space, journeys in a blue box, the races and places and people. His voice caught and broke sometimes as he recalled those he’d travelled with who only existed now in his memory. I held him and kissed him and stroked his hair and rubbed his back to bring him back to the present and the joy that surrounded him.

 

...


End file.
